


Membrane

by blastocyst



Series: Spooky Art Challenge [1]
Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Brain Damage, Gen, Halloween, Muteness, Sibling Bonding, implied gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2461913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastocyst/pseuds/blastocyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every system has a flaw or two. </p><p>[Written for day three of the <a href="http://spoopyartchallenge.tumblr.com/post/98009756313/what-better-way-to-celebrate-halloween-then-a-31">Spooky Art Challenge</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Membrane

  
   "Okay." Aoba holds up a shirt in each hand. "Do you want to be salt, or pepper?"

   Sei's black eyes flicker between the shirts, the corner of his mouth twitching into a tiny smile before his gaze stays fixed on the black one, _pepper_ , as signified by the white-typed 'P' in the middle of it.

   "I should've known." Aoba tosses the shirt onto Sei's lap. Gingerly, his twin moves a trembling hand to rest on top of the fabric, exploring it with his fingertips, and Aoba bites back the praise that sits at the back of his tongue.

   He's seen every session of therapy that it's taken to get this far, sees how hard his brother works - and even though his limbs tremble constantly when he moves them, sometimes even jerking erratically when he struggles to get his body under control, Aoba thinks that this progress is one of the most amazing things he's ever seen.  
  
   "It matches your skeleton pants," he points out, turning around to pull his own shirt off and replace it with the white one. He glances back over his shoulder to find his twin still absently stroking the fabric, and Aoba wonders what he's feeling that makes him caress the cheap cotton like it's the purest silk.

  
~*~

  
   They're sitting at one of Black Needle's corner tables, mostly hidden away from the rest of the party going on around them in the waiting area; a tacky affair that Mizuki somehow makes fashionable, with ripe pumpkins all around to carve, and a few costumed strangers sipping on orange-coloured cocktails. Plum lighting, family only, sparse enough that the music isn't too loud, and Aoba is glad he won't be having any migraines tonight.

   Aoba takes Sei's pale, trembling hand in his own. His twin's fingers are clasped too tight around the knife, and he attempts to loosen them as he guides the blade to the top of the pumpkin. Sei's wrists are so delicate, blue veins twisting beneath the near-translucent skin. Aoba can't help admiring them when he closes the fingers of one hand around the fragile bones, the other supporting Sei's own fingers around the knife.

   (He admires them, too, when Sei signs to him; the line of blurred turquoise that spans from his elbow to the middle of his palm and runs, prominent, through his ring finger - Aoba can tell that his hands have spend a long time clenched as fists, from how deep-set the lines are.)

   Aoba pushes forward, but meets more resistance than he thought Sei could give. He just barely scrapes the rind before Sei manages to fully open his fist and the knife clatters onto the table in front of them, bringing a few stares from around the room.

   He laughs it off, but he isn't sure he'd doing a good job of hiding the confusion from his face - his brows draw together as he turns to Sei again, and then raise in a silent question. _Why not_?

   But Sei isn't looking at him. His gaze is steady; across the room, two Dry Juice members are carving their own pumpkins, chatting away to each other, barely paying attention as they saw neat lines across the top parts and then remove them. Aoba watches them laugh together when one of them flexes afterwards, obviously tipsy, and the stringy orange membrane clings to his fingertips.

   Sei sharply looks away just as they begin scooping the insides out and into a basin.

   Aoba smiles warmly. "You know, when I was a kid, Granny used to call that the pumpkin's 'brain'." He catches Sei's eye just in time to see him grow somehow even paler under the dim lights. "It's a joke. You know, brain, mem _brane_ -" Aoba tries to explain, but Sei only gives him a blank stare. He gives a shrug to indicate that it doesn't matter, turning back to their shared pumpkin. "You ready to try again?"

   His heart sinks when his twin squeezes his eyes tight shut.

  
~*~

  
   Minutes pass, and Sei doesn't open his eyes, so Aoba rests him against the back of the booth and drapes his own jacket over him, taking it as an admission of tiredness. It is late, he supposes. Even this far into his recovery, Sei's body hasn't quite settled into the day-night cycle, instead clinging stubbornly to drifting off whenever it wants to, like he must have done during the eternal midnight of Platinum Jail.

   "Ren," he says, half focusing as he sketches out facial features in black marker. "Are you keeping an eye on him?"

   "Aoba." Ren's little face emerges from Aoba's bag and he nods, obedient. "I always am."

   These days, Ren is more Sei's Allmate than anyone's - he stays at home all day, monitoring Sei's vital signs, engaging in as much conversation as an AI realistically can, as per Aoba's instruction. "His heartbeat is faster than normal," he says in his mutual monotone. "He's showing signs of distress."

   The music is growing louder, the guests becoming more unsteady on their feet. At the bar, bystanders are cheering encouragement at Mizuki's carving; he's showing off, because of course he is, his steady artist hands perfectly sculpting out the skull that's easily recognisable from the Dry Juice logo.

   Aoba stands, digs the knife into the pumpkin's flesh, pressing down with all his weight to sink it in. "You need a maintenance check." It makes a wet noise, and he keeps cutting around the top, unable to hold back his little grunts of exertion. Sei's heartbeat is almost never _faster than normal_ \- he's been told to look out for the opposite. "He's asleep."

  
~*~

  
   Aoba angles the knife and the lid pops right off with a squish, flecks his shirt with orange, and hangs, still connected by ribbons of pulp. It sounds wet, smells wet, everything has that same damp fruit-smell, and when a waitress drops another virgin cocktail off at his table, he realises he didn't even think to ask if Sei might just be adverse to the scent.

 


End file.
